


Unacceptable Loss

by DragonDracarys



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Damn Garrus get some fucking therapy already, F/M, Grief/Mourning, POV Garrus Vakarian, Sad, Statues causing emotional turmoil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:15:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonDracarys/pseuds/DragonDracarys
Summary: "He loathed it. Detested it. Reviled it. Every single time he walked past that hell-taken “artwork” he scowled and averted his gaze, enduring The Walk across the Presidium embroiled in a storm-front of aggravation. Garrus hated that damn statue."Bastion, the deep-space station constructed to replace the Citadel destroyed during the Great War, houses the new Spectre headquarters. While on the station, Garrus stays in a small apartment close to the headquarters. Unfortunately, an obstacle lies between the two locations.AKA: Garrus Vakarian needs some fucking therapy.





	Unacceptable Loss

# Unacceptable Loss

Garrus “Archangel” Vakarian.

Expert marksman, infamous vigilante, one of the most decorated veterans of the Great War, and commander Shepard’s right-hand <strike>man</strike> Turian. Her most trusted confidante, her mate, and her best friend in the galaxy.

_‘And a damn coward’ _Garrus seethed inwardly, determinedly averting his gaze as he stalked across the Bastion Presidium. As he passed _it, _he yet again blasphemed every deity he could name that _it_ happened to be smack dab in the middle of his route to work. He fixed his gaze on a flowering shrub of some kind directly ahead of him, glowering as he resolutely refused to turn his head even a fraction to the left as he marched toward the staircase that would take him to the Spectre headquarters.

As the weak, artificial sunlight of the simulated Presidium “morning” cycle shifted to the cool, blue glow of the staircase lamps, he felt the coiled spring of tension in his shoulders unwind slightly. His mandibles slackened a fraction and his glare became more of a malcontent grimace. The first of his bidaily rituals was complete and he wouldn’t have to face _The Walk_ again until after he left HQ for the evening.

The Spectre headquarters on Bastion weren’t lavish, but they were the only place he felt at home, ever since leaving the Normandy. If it weren’t for the fact that there were no bunks, he’d have spent every hour on Bastion there. But after the destruction of the Citadel during the Great War, the council had decreed security be tightened on the new interplanetary deep-space station. Dubbed “Bastion”, the superstructure underwent construction immediately after the end of the Great War, citing need of a neutral zone for species to conduct business and commerce. Barring the use of the Spectre headquarters as a living space, Garrus had been forced to rent a tiny apartment close to the embassies. Real estate was at a premium there, residents still eager to stay on the new “Citadel”, despite the fate of the last one. His apartment had no décor, just a bed, a fridge (usually filled with dextro rations or take out leftovers), and a closet housing his weapons, armor and civilian attire. It was not a home. It would never be a home.

Initially, Garrus had tried taking a different route to HQ to avoid _The Walk_, using a shuttle through the lower wards, riding the elevator 3 floors up and entering through the back entrance of the embassies, but not only had it almost tripled the time his commute took, he was inundated with shame and guilt that he’d waste so much time and effort to dodge a damned rock.

So twice a day, while not away on a mission, Garrus clenched his jaw, hunched his shoulders and stalked across the Presidium, eyes affixed dead ahead, all 6 talons biting into his palms, that _thing _glinting in his peripheral vision.  
  
All of this just to avoid any sight of it. Of that _thing_. Garrus hated that damn statue.

He loathed it. Detested it. _Reviled _it. Every single time he walked past that hell-taken “artwork” he scowled and averted his gaze, enduring _The Walk _across the Presidium embroiled in a stormfront of aggravation.

And the only thing that disturbed him more than the statue was the way he felt about it. He was furious with himself every time he felt his mandibles flare and the blood in his veins grow hot while walking past that sculpture. 

Because it wasn’t just a statue. It was a memorial.

Shepard’s memorial.

The day it had been unveiled in the most prestigious location imaginable, dead center of the Bastion Presidium’s main thoroughfare, Garrus had attended the ceremony among a crowd of hundreds. He’d been given a formal invitation, along with the rest of Shepard’s crew. While excited to see the crew again after so long apart, a steadily growing knot of apprehension coiled in his belly, right alongside the omnipresent stress he’d carried since Earth. But when he arrived at the Presidium, he was ushered through the throng of citizens right to the front of the crowd. Priority placement was a perk of being Shepard’s crew, he found out, as he found himself among old friends. Tali on his left, Liara on his right, and flanked by the rest of the Normandy’s crew, Garrus felt the ever-present stress that had plagued him for years lift from his shoulders, reveling in just how much like home this crowded gathering suddenly felt. The sensation of belonging Garrus hadn’t experienced since his days on the Normandy washed over him as he heard Wrex and Grunt bickering over whose pet Varren had a better chance in the ring, Kaidan’s exasperated remark in reply to Vega’s impish taunts about biotics, and Joker laughing at a joke Edi had whispered to him at the expense of passerby.  
  
Garrus enjoyed almost an entire half hour of unexpected contentedness as he listened to Tali filling him in, enthusiastically describing the expansion of Quarian civilization on Rannoch and the potential of habitat reintegration in the next few years. When Tali excitedly described the eventuality of life without a biosuit, imagining aloud how it would be, while, as usual, Garrus couldn’t see her expression, the emotional pitch of her voice painted a vivid picture of her elation. Her future was so bright and Garrus let himself enjoy the future vicariously through her as she daydreamed of being able to feel water flowing between her fingers with her bare hands, bask in the heat of Rannoch’s sun against her skin and, most importantly, eat and drink food that hadn’t had to be basically pureed first. By the time the announcement that the ceremony was about to begin played overhead, Garrus had been lulled into a contentment so absolute, his sub-vocals were rumbling in a gentle purring sound. But, as he came back to himself, he realized the event was starting and the knot of apprehension in his gut constricted once again.

After a poignant speech detailing Shepard’s heroism in saving the galaxy from threats thought insurmountable time and time again, the Asari artist unveiled her creation, dropping the opaque shield with the press of a button on a small remote. 

With a flourish, the 15-foot-tall statue of commander Jane Shepard was revealed to a crowd of hundreds in person and hundreds of millions watching the live broadcast throughout the Milky Way, and Garrus had stared, slack jawed at how magnificent it was.

And how ugly it was.

The sculpture of commander Shepard, hewn from stone, stood on an onyx dais, brilliant red flowers at her feet, a rifle clutched in her right hand, hanging at her side. Her left was curled into a fist at her other side, and she confidently stared straight ahead, eyes on the horizon. But when Garrus’ eyes latched onto the recreated face of the woman who saved the galaxy, he felt the bile rise in his throat. He scowled, acrimony leaving a sour taste on his tongue.

That was not the face of a warrior who felt the weight of the entire galaxy on her shoulders and carried it with grace, despite the crushing burden of responsibility, doing what nobody else would. That was not the face of a woman whose smile could soften even the harshest jibe, twinkling eyes taking the sting out of every snide remark she made. That was not the face of a human being whose compassion and resolve delivered them all from certain death and left the future bright for every being of every race, both artificial and organic.

And yet, as the shield dropped, and the memorial was unveiled to the crowd in the Bastion Presidium, a jubilant cry rent the air, cheers and applause for the universe’s beloved savior.

Garrus, however, stayed silent, seemingly the only one who could see how wrong the artist had gotten it. How they’d failed to capture Shepard’s essence at all. Even Shepard’s own crew looked affectionately at the memorial, stoic faces giving way, even just temporarily, to gruff admiration. Liara, tears in her eyes, smiled with approval, and Samara’s usually impassive gaze permitted an appreciative smile. Wrex and Grunt, joviality tucked aside for the time being, both nodded in satisfaction. Turning, Garrus saw Jacob, James, and Kaidan saluting solemnly, Jack’s mouth drawn into a small smirk and even Zaeed give an approving bob of his head, arms crossed over his chest.

But Garrus stared, crestfallen, at the mediocre attempt to replicate the human who’d grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the most dangerous, most exhilarating 3 years of his life. 3 years wherein she’d also somehow managed to reach through his carapace and steal his heart without him even noticing until it was far, far too late.

The crowd continued to laud, professing their appreciation for the artist’s rendering. However, when Liara looked over to see Garrus’ face, she was taken aback by the consternation she saw there. Garrus felt her gaze and struggled to school his features into something more neutral; tried to project an appearance of cool indifference. It worked… sort of. Had Liara not spent years with him on the deck of the Normandy and out in the field with Shepard, she might have been fooled into believing his façade. But she_ had_ spent all that time with him, and thusly was not fooled. She looked away, puzzled over his reaction, and resolving to pull Garrus aside after the ceremony.

After a smattering of questions to the artist, the gathering of people slowly began to disperse, murmuring intently about the artist’s representation of commander Shepard’s spirit, the symbolism of the flowers at the base of the dais, and complimenting the accuracy of the determined expression in her eyes. And still Garrus stared, the crowd parting around him without so much as a backward glance, water sliding past a stone in a stream.  
  
“Garrus?” Liara had watched him intently for a few seconds following the conclusion of the ceremony. “Are you alright?”

He slammed shut the open book of emotions written on his face and turned from the statue to face her.

“Yeah… fine,” He said, forcing his voice into an appropriate register, “It’s a… nice tribute.”

Liara was not fooled in the slightest. She could see plain as day the disquiet he was struggling to disguise. But she didn’t know, exactly, what was causing it. Her only guess was that the loss of Shepard had been dragged to the forefront of his mind, unearthing the painful memories he’d been repressing since her death.

“Garrus…” she started, unsure of how to address her grieving friend.

“Thanks for coming out, Liara. It was great to see the crew again. We’ll have to get together for drinks sometime.” He moved past her, eyes fixed on Wrex and Kaidan who were chuckling about how the artist had gotten the sights on the rifle backward.

Liara let him go, still unsure of not only how to broach the topic of his discontent, but also the cause of it. She watched as Garrus mingled among old comrades, determinedly discussing anything but the cause of their reunion. Samara caught her eye and gave her a brief shake of the head. ‘_Do not press him,’ _the look said, ‘_not __now.’ _

So Liara didn’t.

That had been over a year ago, and to this day, every time he crossed the Presidium from his apartment to the Spectre headquarters he had to walk past that damn statue, hating both the memorial itself and emotions it evoked within him. Malcontent and distaste had hardened into animosity and repulsion. His view of it had shifted from a simple dislike to revolt of the inaccuracy it portrayed.

Now, on his way back through the commons after a day that had lasted far too long, thanks not in small part to his procrastinating _The Walk_, the artificial light was dimmed on the Presidium to reflect a night cycle. Garrus forced himself to stop and stare at _it. _He stood in the deserted Presidium in front of the effigy honoring the galaxy’s greatest loss… and stared.

In his heart he knew that even the most talented artist in the universe would never be able to fully capture Shepard’s beauty and poise. He knew, objectively, that this was, in fact, a magnificent replica of her. Her rifle held aloft, but still ready to fire at a moment’s notice. Her hair could have been liquid, so fluid was the artist’s application of skill. And her eyes... enemies had quailed at the look in commander Shepard’s eyes; she hadn’t needed a weapon to intimidate lesser foes. One look and they flinched, showing their hand without even a spoken threat. 

And yet, looking up at the sculpture tastefully lit from beneath by lights embedded in the dais, he felt the all too familiar feeling of anger sweep through him, abrupt fury lighting the air in his lungs ablaze, consuming him and turning his heart to ash.

“You promised,” he whispered, “You promised you’d come back.” He hadn’t intended to give voice to his thoughts, but out of nowhere, the words were ripped from him, torn from his chest and hurled at the monument.

“IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME!” He shrieked, caught completely off guard by his own outburst, but entirely powerless to stop it, “You forced me to leave and then _you_-“ His voice fractured on the last word, sub-vocals going haywire against his will as they relayed his heartache to anybody close enough to hear them. There was, of course, no one, empty as the Presidium was.

“You _ordered _me to leave! This is **_your fault!” _**He bellowed at the stone, demanding satisfaction from the mute slab of marble.

And like a concussion shot from a rifle, he realized that the anger he suffered staring into the face of the woman he’d loved had never been instigated by the statue itself. Instead, the feeling of betrayal had wormed its way inside him and leached venom into his heart. Her perceived duplicity had laced his blood with gasoline and self-combusted every time he’d stalked past the stark figure in the middle of the Presidium.

The comprehension stoked the coals of his fury, and the flames in his chest grew until they engulfed him completely, swallowing his bones in a curling inferno.

“If I hadn’t gotten myself blown up, If I hadn’t left you _alone_-” his rage built, overwhelming him, fists clenching and talons slicing crescents into his palms.

The impotent rage twisted inside his chest, a cornered animal caged between his ribs, snarling and snapping in helpless desperation. The feeling of being _powerless_ crashed over him, causing panic to edge its way into his subconscious. Slowly, with experience borne from years of frontline firefights, he clamped down on the rogue emotion, quashing the blossoming panic before it really had a chance to spread.

And then the maelstrom flickered out as quickly as it had ignited, leaving the space between his lungs hollow.

“If I’d just _stayed_ with you until the end of the line…” it came out as a cracked whisper when, abruptly, there was nothing left to burn. The smoldering rage in the space where his heart should be was emptied out and replaced by grief. The anger that had sustained the firestorm within him melted into sorrow, and suddenly he was drowning. Garrus fell to his knees at the dais, arms hung limply at his sides, head bowed.

“You always come back.”

But she didn’t. She didn’t always come back. Commander Shepard had survived impossible odds a hundred times and strode, occasionally limping, back through the airlock of the Normandy. Her face would transform from pained grimace to cheeky grin upon seeing his strained look, urging him to forgive her brazenness.

But a hundred times was one too many, and finally her number was called. That day the universe held its breath, that day the universe waited for the dawn, had been her last. Shepard had died up there in the black abyss of space, and she hadn’t come back that time. One hundred times to beat the odds had been the limit.  
_  
‘Acceptable loss’ _was the term the brass applied to such situations. Cracked a few eggs for an omelet. Sacrificed a knight for the king. Lost the battle but won the war.

**Stopped the Reapers, staved off the fucking apocalypse, and saved the whole goddamned universe. **

But what had it cost them? Countless lives given in hope of protecting loved ones, buying time for somebody, _anybody_, to pull the final trigger. A hundred million brave souls given to save billions.

  
‘_Acceptable loss’_.

  
But humanity’s first Spectre? A hero in every sense of the term, the only one who would do whatever it took to stop the onslaught? The only one who could save them all?

If ever there was a time that Garrus could have possibly considered commander Shepard’s death an _‘acceptable loss’, _this was it. But if anybody had asked him in the years since Shepard was officially declared KIA if he’d considered her death an _acceptable loss, _he would not be able to answer them.

Because he knew what his answer was, and he knew, objectively, that it was the wrong one.

So he kneeled there, besieged by emotion, struggling to put the pieces back together as the replicated sky above his head lightened, tying the shards of himself together with the threads of her memory. The crushing realization that his anger, his fury, had all been rooted not in a damn statue, nor it’s artist, nor even, truly, in Shepard. That realization that he himself and his ill-repressed feelings of guilt had plagued him for a year, torturing him daily under the guise of a “poorly” designed statue. It would almost be comical how oblivious he’d been had he not been so fractured by the revelation.

Finally, he stood, using the ornamental plaque as leverage, and with a jolt he realized that in all this time he’d never even bothered to read it. He brushed his talons across its surface as he read:

**In cherished memory of Commander Jane Shepard**

**May every day she bought the galaxy be spent making it all the better**

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.” -Og Mandino

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is welcome! I'm still kinda new to writing and I'm always looking for constructive criticism and affirmation. 
> 
> I may or may not stay up late at night reading comments when I feel sad.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (curiositykilledthecas.tumblr.com)


End file.
